Given Half The Chance
by Kay Seda
Summary: Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough and bound to get tougher. While on the run Adora and Jeb meet another victim of the war, and gradually learn to trust again.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Given Half the Chance 1/8  
**Author:** Kay Seda  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.  
**Characters:** Glitch, some OCs, and spoilery familiar faces  
**Warnings:** a little mob brutality in this bit

* * *

"Russell!"

Russell Demason was the blacksmith in the village of Redbrook. As was typical of blacksmiths he was a tall, broad man whose skin and clothing were constantly marred by soot and scorch marks. He had brown eyes and long, pale blond hair which he we in a braid that ended between his shoulder blades.

He did good, quality work for which the village was grateful. He also kept mostly to himself, which was frustrating for fathers of eligible young ladies looking to marry into a lucrative local business. Russ much preferred the life of a bachelor in his modest home above the smithy, his apprentice Lindsay Wylain his primary company.

He did not generally involve himself in the personal problems of others, especially not in that day and age, unless it impacted his work, his extended family, or if he deemed it necessary.

This last was the case when Lindsay ran back into the smithy shortly Russell had closed for the night. The boy was breathless and excited.

"Russell, they've got a man down the old elm, they're going to string 'im up!"

The blacksmith wiped his hands on his leather apron and squinted. "What's this?"

Lindsay pointed the way with a grin. "They caught the man who was stealing Mrs. Flemming's peaches."

"And he's getting hung for that?" Russell asked, incredulous, as they started down the road.

"Uh huh," the apprentice replied, his expression turning serious as he delivered the juiciest part of the news. "It's a headcase."

Russell's expression darkened and he picked up his pace, apron slapping against his thighs as he ran.

It seems half the village had gathered around the tree in the golden-pink sunset, the excited buzz of the mob building as Russell pushed his way his way to the center. There was Breaman Matthews the grocer, and the former councilman, and Mr. Tarnaky, and a bruised, bloody man dressed in old royal livery, his skull bisected by a tell-tale zipper.

There was a a loop of rope around the headcase's neck, and it seemed like any fight he may have had left had been beaten out of him.

"Russell!" Matt Breaman called and tossed the loose end of the rope over a sturdy bough. Several local boys clambered to take hold of it. "See what we found under Mrs. Flemming's peach tree?"

"And since when is thieving a capital offense?" Russell demanded.

"Who knows," Louise Toll muttered. "Maybe it is now."

"'Sides, it's a headcase," Breaman said and took hold of the rope along with the others. "Who knows what he's done. Or could do."

This caused a little uncertainty in the crowd, even as the headcase was hauled up by a pull of the rope. He gasped and his bound hands went to his neck, bound feet kicking uselessly.

Russell cursed and looked around for someone to appeal to. "But he's already been punished!"

"Headcases are harmless," Alda Menw added. She gathered her two young children to her skirts and turned away, stricken. "That's... that's the point."

"And why's he wearing that outfit?" Tad Eilig called.

"Stolen, likely," Mrs. Flemming snapped.

The councilman who had represented the town before the Zonian Assembly was dissolved, Jared Wessinger, found his voice. "No, it's not. This man was the queen's advisor."

Silence filled the glen. The men pulling on the rope stopped, let the headcase down so his toes touched earth.

Russell shook his head. "He's truly done nothing, then."

"Like hell!" shouted Mr. Tarnaky. "My sons died fighting the longcoats, and for what? Azkadellia still took the crown. We- _he_ lost!"

"And you see how well she rewarded him," Tad drawled.

The headcase, the advisor, whimpered and continued to struggle feebly.

"Let him down," Louise said quietly. She smoothed her hands over her hips, a nervous gesture. "No better than her if we don't let him down."

"He's got all our blood on his hands!"

"Do we really want his on ours?"

Mrs. Flemming sneered. "Who'll he steal from next?"

"No one," Russell said firmly and stepped forward. "I'll look after him, least 'til he's well enough to move on."

Breaman arched his eyebrows. "Can you manage another stray, Demason?" At Russell's nod he shrugged and let go of the rope, the other men following suit. The headcase crumpled to his knees before Russell caught him.

As the blacksmith worked on releasing the bindings he looked up to find the counsilman watching. "What's his name, Mr. Wessinger?"

Jared blinked, and thought for a moment. "Galitch," he relied. "Ambrose Galitch."

Russell nodded, and carefully brought his new charge to his feet to begin the walk home. It was a bit of a challenge as he had to half-carry the man. Lindsay, nosy as ever, trailed along with him.

"Should I fetch Doc Nerry?" the boy asked, but Russell shook his head.

"I'll manage, just get the upstairs door open for me and then go home to your ma, okay?"

The apprentice complied, and was gone before Russell settled his guest in a kitchen chair, where he slumped bonelessly. Russell backed off with a sigh and surveyed the ragged, gaunt figure before him who a scant two annuals past had been one of the most powerful people in the Outer Zone.

Now he was mute, helpless, and barely conscious, another victim of the Sorceress' amusing idea of justice. That made him worth Russell's help, just like when he took Lindsay in so he wouldn't be recruited by the Resistance. Just like he took in his cousin's wife and child when they'd arrived at his door in the dead of the night.

"What's this?"

Russell glanced up. Framed in the kitchen doorway was a tall, sad-eyed woman whose dark blond hair was swept back in a bun. Her young son peered around her warily.

"This is Mrs. Flemming's thief," Russell replied. "Wessinger says he used to be the queen's advisor."

"Blessed Ozma," the woman whispered and came forward to stand at Russell's side. She reached out to touch the headcase's face but pulled away when he ducked. "Who did this to him?"

Russell shook his head. "Breaman and his lot. Know anything about laundering a royal uniform?"

"I'll do my best," she muttered, then looked to her son who still hovered b the door, curious. "Can you get us a cloth, and the aid kit?" The boy nodded and went to his task, so she returned her attention to the headcase. "We're going to fix you up and get you some food, okay?"

"No use asking him, Adora," Russell remarked with a humorless smile. "You know headcases can't talk."

_fin_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Given Half the Chance 2/8  
**Author**: Kay Seda  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Summary**: Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.  
**Characters**: Glitch, Adora, Jeb, and a pack of OCs  
**This part**: The care and feeding of a jumpy headcase.

* * *

It wasn't long before pure exhaustion dragged Mr. Galitch into unconsciousness, and Adora and Russell were able to divest him of his clothing. Russell suggested burning, but Adora seemed determined to try and restore the garments and set herself and her son Jeb to the task.

This left Russell ti bathe the once-advisor and tend his injuries, mostly cuts and bruises, the rope burn around his neck and wrists. The index finger of his left hand seemed to be fractured but not seriously, so Russell fashioned a splint and bound the injured digit to the middle finger. He redressed the man in an old shirt and pair of trousers, the clothes swamping the headcase's emaciated form.

A bedroll was laid out on the sitting room floor and they settled Ambrose on it. Adora went to the kitchen to make broth and Russell stoked the fire while Jeb studied the zipper ont he man's head curiously. Once he was certain the adults were occupied he reached out to touch the anchor point at Ambrose's hairline.

Jeb jumped back when frightened brown eyes suddenly snapped open, and both he and the headcase gave a startled cry.

"Jeb!" his mother shouted as she rushed out of the kitchen. Russell came over as well, hauling Jeb behind him with his left hand and brandishing the hearth broom in his right. Ambrose had disentangled himself from his bedding and gotten his back to the wall, but did not have the energy to stand. he whimpered and plucked at the collar of his borrowed shirt.

"It's okay," Jeb said and shrugged out of Russell's grasp. "We just spooked each other is all."

Russell nodded and set the broom down. "It's okay," he repeated softly, showing the headcase his empty hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. No one's going to hurt you."

Ambrose blinked and hunched his shoulders, cradling his left hand in his right. He studied the bandaged fingers, then shook his head and started picking at the dressing.

"No, don't," Adora said and crouched before him, gently pulling his hands away from each other. "Leave it alone, that will help it heal. Do you understand?"

He responded by whining and pulling his hands back feebly.

"That's all you're gonna get," Russell told her. "He doesn't understand, that's the point."

She shot him a glare. "bet he understands being hungry. Jeb, could you fetch a heel of bread and some broth? Not too much now. And a cup of water, please."

"Yes, ma," he said and headed into the kitchen.

Russell sighed and settled himself in a low-slung chair. "We'll have to keep an eye on him," he warned Adora. "He's more a danger to himself right now. If he goes back out there..."

"They're liable to kill him," Adora finished with a nod. "It doesn't make sense. He was never the enemy, he was on their side."

"You know why. Some folks blame the queen for not doing enough to protect us, but since she's not here they figure they've got the next best thing in her lapdog. Someone's gotta pay."

Adora narrowed her eyes. "Oh someone will pay all right, and her name's Azkadellia."

Mention of the name made Ambrose flinch, and his hands went to his head as if to protect it.

"Well, he understands _that_ at least," Russell remarked. Jeb returned with a tray, which he set on the floor between his mother and the headcase.

Adora made herself smile encouragingly as she scooped up a bit of broth, blew across it to cool, then held the spoon to Ambrose's mouth.

"It will make you feel better," she murmured. "I promise."

Slowly his hands came down to rest at his sides, then his lips parted just enough for her to pour the broth past them. He swallowed, blinked, and licked his lips so she repeated the process, this time with a corner of bread included.

After the third mouthful Ambrose's hands came up again, this time to take the bowl and spoon from her. Aodra handed them over, helping him balance the bowl in his left hand, then watched in fascination as he sat up like an expertly handled marionette and delicately worked his way through the bowl. He set it down when he was finished, so she offered him the wooden cup which he accepted and drank from carefully.

"I'll be damned," Russell muttered. He'd sat up during the spectacle and rest his elbows on his knees. "Proper as a lord at court."

"See?" Adora said, and now her smile was genuine. "Not so senseless after all, are you Mr. Galitch?"

Their wonder was short lived as Ambrose blinked, shuddered, and let the empty cup fall from his trembling hand.

Russell snorted and sat back, Jeb sighed in disappointment, and Adora frowned. Ambrose looked around in confusion, at the, at the tray, at his borrowed clothing, then started prodding at the wrapping in his fingers again.

"It's like he's back where he started," Jeb remarked.

Again Adora separated the hands. This time she held on to the undamaged right one and shook her head. "Stop that now," she said firmly, then turned to look at Russell. "I'll keep first watch. Hopefully he'll sleep but until he learns to leave it alone someone's got to keep an eye on him."

_He can't learn anything_, Russell didn't say. Instead he nodded and got to his feet to take the tray back into the kitchen.

When he returned he found that Adora has coaxed Ambrose into laying down again, and the headcase now curled on his side and watched them with heavy-lidded eyes. Adora then took Jeb up to the loft to get him to bed for the night, which gave Russell a chane to regard his newest guest skeptically.

"You better not disappoint her too much," he muttered. "Woman's had her heart broken enough as it is."

A flicker of curiosity crossed Ambrose's face, but it was gone almost before it appeared with another sharp blink, and he tried to pull the blanket over his head.

They set a schedule for watching him, and Russell told Adora that if she didn't wake him for his shift then his alarm clock would, and that she could hollar for help if she needed it, and reminded her where the guns were, and-

"I kept my son and myself safe with some of the Witch's best goons after us," Adora pointed out. "I can manage one half-starved aristocrat."

With a chastened nod Russell turned for his room while she turned off all but one light and settled into the low chair for her vigil.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Given Half the Chance 3/8  
**Author:** Kay Seda  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher. **This part:** Exposition and education.  
**Characters:** Glitch, Adora, Jeb, and a pack of OCs  
**A/N: **I've sort of stalled on this one (read: sidetracked by Topeka and cake and any number of things) but it is next on my to-do list. *crosses fingers*

* * *

The alarm was unnecessary, as Adora woke Russell an hour past midnight before going to join her son in the loft. Russell allowed himself to doze since Ambrose seemed to be sleeping heavily, and when the headcase did wake, it was with a startled exclamation that roused the blacksmith as well.

In the morning what Russell expected to be an ordeal turned out to be anything but. All he had to do was direct direct Ambrose to the bathroom and he managed himself, washed hands and all. At breakfast he repeated the previous night's performance, demonstrating perfect etiquette as he fed himself porridge.

"It makes sense, I suppose," Russell mused. "Queen's advisor had to be smart, so he should manage better than most without his marbles."

"And he was a gentleman, not a thug," Adora added as she cleared the bowls away. She tugged on Ambrose's right sleeve when he went to fuss with the wrapping again. "Leave it," she said when he looked at her sharply.

Russell smirked, then got to his feet. "All right, I'm going to open the shop. Keep him out of trouble?"

They both looked at Ambrose, who was now studying his sleeve with a concerned frown. He blinked hard and looked up in confusion, then went back to tugging on the fabric.

"We'll do our best," Adora remarked wryly.

*

When Russell opened the smithy for business he was not very surprised to find Breaman Matthews waiting outside. The grocer smiled and nodded a greeting.

"How'd everything go?" he asked with a significant upward glance as he stepped inside.

"Everything's just fine," Russell replied. He was careful about giving Breaman too much information, as the man seemed to collect it. He could claim being nothing more than a humble shopkeeper all he liked but it was an open secret that there was more to him than that. His store managed to stay stocked with fresh, quality goods even in these hard times, and the longcoats who frequently harassed surrounding communities usually skipped Redbrook altogether.

Breaman wandered around the shop, looking over the tools and supplied with interest. "I'm glad to hear that, really. I'd hate if you'd have to turn your new friend out."

"Not happening," Russell vowed and pulled his apron over his head. "Leave it be, Breaman, he's no harm to anyone."

"He's as much harm as your other friends are if the longcoats turn up, Demason," Breaman muttered. "I did some research on Mr. Galitch. Did you know that up 'til a couple months ago he was a guest at Sacred Heart in the Realm?"

Russell didn't bother answering; of course he hadn't known. It was true that most headcases ended up as wards of charity since they couldn't really look after themselves and the state was not obliged to care for them. The institution run by the Sacred Heart Mission in the Realm of the Unwanted, of course, had a reputation for housing some of the more unsavory "reformed" criminals.

"About four months after his capture the beautiful and gracious Azkadellia had Mr. Galitch delivered to the Realm, and shortly after that he turned up at Sacred Heart," Breaman explained. "The Sorceress' emissaries checked on him from time to time, but six weeks ago he managed to escape. There are a number of people very interested in locating him as we speak."

The blacksmith frowned. "Why does she care-"

"Who wants to know why she does anything?" Breaman sighed. "The point is she wants Mr. Galitch where she can keep an eye on him, and you've got yourself and this town in the way of that now. On top of-" He stopped suddenly and became very fascinated with a set of tongs.

Lindsay was shortly at the door, his expression curious and eager.

"Morning, Russ!" the young man said with a grin. "Can I see the headcase?"

"His name is Ambrose, and no you can't," Russell replied. "Get the smelter going, Linds, we've got flatware today."

The boy turned to get to his task, then stopped and looked up. "Is he tied up up there?"

"Fire, Lindsay," Russell sighed, his patience worn thin. The apprentice sulked but complied, so the blacksmith turned his attention back to Breaman. "If folks keep it quiet it'll be fine."

"Folks're hungry, desperate," Breaman pointed out. "You should've let me handle it, now you've got the bleeding hearts mixed up in his business, now who knows what'll happen?"

With a shrug Russell glanced at the floor. "You won't have to worry yourself over it, he'll be away soon enough."

"Where've I heard that before," Breaman mused and inclined his head. "It'll be down to you, Demason. Good day."

With that he took his leave, only to be replaced by another of Redbrook's citizens. Aggie Maycroft was pushing her run-down motorbike with its sidecar through the wide door of the shop.

"Blasted thing's gone out again," she muttered. "Swear I spend more time walking it than riding it."

"I'm not a mechanic, Ms. Maycroft," Russell told her, although he was not in the mood to go over the old argument once again. "Really, I can't-"

"You'll get more use out of it than I will," she pointed out. "Melt it down, strip it for parts for all I care, I'm through." Aggie smacked her hands together, as if to rid herself of the problem.

"I..." Russell began, then shook his head in surrender. "Thanks, Aggie."

"Don't say I never did you no favors," she told him with a grin, then departed from the shop.

*

After breakfast Ambrose had gone back to his makeshift bed in the sitting room and went to sleep. Adora sighed and shook her head before giving Jeb a faint smile. "Remember being that tired?"

"Yeah," Jeb muttered and continued drying the dishes.

Adora frowned at her son for a moment. She'd retrieved Ambrose's coat from the drying room and was trying to repair the braiding with minimal success.

"It's a shame," she said softly. "He was in contact with the Resistance in the east before the end. Your father... said there was a plan to protect the queen. We were never told the details, and then we ran out of time."

"I don't want to talk about it," Jeb said quietly.

Adora regarded him with a look of sadness, then nodded, strands of hair falling across her face. She returned her attention to the braiding, twisting the fabric in an effort to return it to its original shape. The silence dragged on until a creak of the floorboards brought their attention to the kitchen doorway. Ambrose stood there, concern and curiosity at war on his face.

"Hello," Adora said with another forced smile.

Jeb frowned and set about putting the dishes away, making sure he stayed within reach of the knife block just in case.

The headcase's attention latched onto the coat, though, and he lurched forward with hands outstretched, only to freeze when he spotted the needle and thread in Adora's hands. Once again his own hands went to the top of his head and he whimpered.

Adora drew a breath, then swiftly tied off the loop she was working on and broke the thread so she could hide the needle away in her kit.

"Here," she whispered and shoved the coat across the table towards Ambrose. "I was just trying to fix it, no need to fret."

After a few moments he stepped forward to collect the garment, and Jeb came to stand beside his mother's chair, placing a hand on her shoulder. Ambrose fought his way into the coat, smoothed it over his chest, then pulled out the opposite chair and took a seat.

They looked at each other in silence for several moments.

Finally Adora nodded and placed her hand on her chest. "My name is Adora Cain," she said, then reached up to touch Jeb's arm. "This is my son, Jeb." She repeated this a couple of times, then nodded encouragingly.

Ambrose bit his lip and a frown creased his brow, but he remained silent.

"You're Ambrose," Jeb added. "That's your name."

Very slowly Ambrose tilted his head to the side, his mouth opened, then he blinked and shuddered again and looked around, perplexed.

"And it's gone," Adora murmured. "He gets close and then he just stops."

Jeb nodded. "It's weird."

"It's wrong, Jeb" his mother corrected. "Headcases that have as much removed as he did are little better than infants. Ambrose here knows table manners."

No sooner did she say that then she had to reach across the table to once more stop Ambrose from fussing with the bandage on his fingers again. Before she could reach him, however, he stopped and settled both hands on the table top.

"See that?" Adora said. "He can learn. He was a genius and he's still smart, so we're going to teach him." She looked up at Jeb and raised her eyebrows. "You'll help me right?"

He nodded, and they went over names again, and again. Adora took Ambrose with her to the drying room to collect the rest of his clothes, which he then took into the bathroom. He emerged a sort time later once more dressed in his own attire, the shirt and slacks borrowed from Russell left in a heap on the floor.

"Isn't that better?" Adora asked, then introduced herself again when he looked at her as if for the first time.

This continued through the day, and included Russell when he came up for lunch. Ambrose got frequent tours of the apartment (kitchen, sitting room, bathroom, Russell's room, stairs to the loft), interrupted only when he collapsed to his bedroll for a nap.

Their reward came at dinner, when the used each other's names as often as possible and Ambrose looked at whoever's name had been spoken, apparently following the conversation.

"And that's just one day" Jeb pointed out, and there was a hint of enthusiasm in his tone that made Adora and Russell smile in relief.

Ambrose smiled too, just for a moment, then he blinked and everything was gone again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Given Half the Chance 4/8(ish)  
**Author:** Kay Seda  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.  
**Characters:** Glitch, Adora, Jeb, and a pack of OCs  
**This part:** A lot of repeated questions with many, many answers.

* * *

It continued that way for much of the week. By the third day Ambrose seemed to remember each of their names, and could follow some basic instructions. This meant that he would spontaneously wipe down the table or close the curtains whether it needed doing or not, but it showed he was retaining information.

The eighth evening found the four of them at the kitchen table playing a card game, the object of which was to match the suit or the number. Jeb was helping Ambrose with their shared hand, looking over the cards and asking if there was a diamond or a two there.

"Come on," Jeb coaxed and tapped the card Russell had set down. "A diamond," he said and pointed to the shape, then moved his finger to the number. "Or a two."

Ambrose bit his lip and studied the four cards fanned in his hand, over and over. Finally, decisively, he made a selection.

"Diamond!" he shouted and set the seven of diamonds over the two.

Adora's cards fell from her fingers. "Ozma," she whispered.

"Cripes," Russell added and shook his head.

Jeb and Ambrose wore matching expressions of shock, and Ambrose's hand went to cover his lips. Jeb pulled the hand away and scooted his chair around to look Ambrose in the eyes.

"That was good," the boy said with a nod. "It's okay, you can talk. You know the words, you know what they mean, you _can_ talk."

"You can," Adora repeated. "We know you can, Ambrose."

For a few moments Ambrose's mouth moved silently, then he made an incoherent squeaking noise, then finally he gasped out "...can talk."

"That's incredible," Russell murmured and finally set his own cards down.

The action made Ambrose glance at his own cards, then around the table, blinking rapidly as he did so. "I can talk," he said again, stronger this time. His voice was raspy from long disuse, the words slightly slurred but intelligible. "I can... who... I'm... who-"

Which was when his eyes rolled back in his head. Russell and Jeb barely caught him as he slid from his chair, unconscious.

"What happened?" Adora cried as she sprung from her own seat and hurried around the table.

"Probably overdid it," Russell said and carefully hauled Ambrose upright. "What's left of his brain can only handle so much at once."

Jeb sighed in disappointment and picked up the cards Ambrose had dropped. "He barely said anything."

"Central wasn't built in a day," his mother chided and helped Russell get Ambrose back to his nest in the sitting room.

*

If Ambrose could remember what an identity crisis was, he'd have said that was an understatement of what he endured. At the time he was having a hard time understanding the concept of identity itself.

He (male) was (existed). It was a starting point, one he was grateful for, "grateful" being an emotion he was becoming familiar with.

Ambrose was his name, that's what they told him. "They" were Adora (sad eyes, soft voice) and Russell (big man, he didn't know what to think of him sometimes) and Jeb (just a boy, but bright) and they were taking care of him.

They hadn't always been there. He could almost remember running, and maybe before that he had been somewhere dark. He didn't want to think about it, so he thought of what sunslight did to dust and soft bread with buttery crust instead.

He had forgotten how to speak, and now that he remembered that he also remembered that there was more still forgotten. He was Ambrose Galitch, he had been an adviser to the queen (what queen), but Azkadellia (he knew that name) had... had...

"Taken your brain," Adora said patiently. "She headcased you."

"So I was someone awful," he said miserably. "Only awful people get headcased."

She shook her head, so, so sad and smoothed her fingers over the plain gold ring on her left hand. "Not anymore. Good people are being punished and bad ones are rewarded. The world's all backwards."

That didn't make any sense so he let it go. He had something more interesting to think about.

"I like your ring," Ambrose announced. It was shiny, he liked bright and shiny things and he thought maybe that there had been another woman. One whose hair was lighter or darker (or both) than Adora's who had worried at a similar ring.

He realized he'd made Adora even more sad, because she was smiling that smile that it hurt to look at. "Thank you," she whispered. "My husband saved for almost an annual to buy it."

"You have a husband?" Ambrose asked, excited for new information. Well, of course she had one, Jeb needed a father didn't he? Or did he?

"I did," Adora replied and shook her head again. "He... we lost him. The longcoats took him from us."

Ambrose did not like longcoats. They were just about the scariest thing he could think of, along with monkey bats and, weirdly, cold metal tables.

"I'm so sorry," he told the woman. He wasn't sure why he was sorry or who she was, but she looked sad. He patted her hand (why were his fingers bandaged?), then noticed her ring, remembered _Adora_, and nodded firmly. "I like your ring," he told her and smiled. Maybe a compliment would cheer her up.

Adora did smile, even though it looked like it hurt to do so. "Thank you, Ambrose."

"That's my name," he said, matter of fact. "I'm Ambrose." Which brought him back to that identity thing. "I am."

He _was_.

*

On a day when the shop was closed Russell brought Ambrose downstairs. The headcase had expressed curiosity and Adora had been encouraging, so Russell gave in. He reasoned she likely needed a break from explaining why they were hiding, what had happened to her husband, what had happened to Ambrose himself.

"Don't touch anything," Russell warned. "You could get hurt."

"Don't touch, could hurt," Ambrose repeated and nodded once, firmly. He'd been persuaded to leave his coat upstairs as the lengthy tails might have gotten caught on something. He still wore his embroidered vest over a borrowed brown shirt while the white one was washed.

Russell showed him around, the smelter and anvil, tongs and hammers, the kettle Freddie Cavendish would be picking up the next day. The process was repeated, then once more to be certain, when Ambrose surprised him by asking about the motorbike.

"Broken," Russell explained. "Something in the motor's not right. That's the motor," he added and pointed, but Ambrose was nodding.

"I know that," he said quietly. He got that tone every once in a while, _ghost voice_ as Jeb called it. It was like and echo of who he used to be. "Motor. Maybe a cog or-" He blinked and suddenly looked at his left hand. "When will it be fixed?"

"What, the motor?"

"My finger. What motor?"

Russell sighed. The conversation had gotten tangled again. "Your finger will be better in a week," he began. "The motor on the bike might get fixed if we find a mechanic."

"Huh," Ambrose remarked. He smiled hesitantly at Russell and ducked his head. "Hello."

With a faint nod Russell took Ambrose's arm. "Come on, let's get back upstairs."

*

Two nights later, the household and a third of the village was awakened by the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over and revving. Russell was the first downstairs, Adora and Jeb right behind him. All three froze and gaped at the sight before them.

Every lamp in the shop had been turned on and moved to the side with the bike. Half the contents of Russell's father's toolkit were spread out on the worktable. Presiding over it all was a baffled but triumphant Ambrose, clad in his pajamas and Russell's apron, hands and face smeared with grease.

"Fixed it!" he shouted over the din. "Well, someone did." He scratched the side of his head with an adjustable wrench.

Russell finally recovered enough to run over and cut the engine. He also took the wrench from Ambrose, who flinched away with a whimper. Quickly Russell set the tool down and showed his empty hands, an action they'd all grown accustomed to.

"You did good, Ambrose," he said soothingly. "Just had to stop the noise and-"

"What noise?" Ambrose asked, looking around. "Why are we all down here?"

Adora approached with a smile and took his dirty hands in her clean ones. "You fixed the motorbike," she told him. "Which is very, very good, I'm proud of you."

Russell nodded. "We all are, but we need to get back upstairs before-"

There was a rattle of a key in the shop's lock, then Lindsay flung the door open. Behind him was Breaman, and Mrs. Flemming, and a number of other people with lanterns. Soon there were half a dozen or so more people in the shop.

"Mercy of the gods, Demason," Mrs. Flemming snarled. "What're you up to waking the whole town at this hour?" Her sharp, dark eyes were full of contempt as they settled on Ambrose.

Russell had positioned himself in front of Adora and Jeb and he'd tried nudging Ambrose behind him as well, but the headcase instead shuffled forward.

"Hello," he began, which got a gasp from the assembled. he smiled nervously. "The name's Galitch. Um. Sorry I woke you all."

Wessinger broke the silence that followed. "Tip's knickers!"

"Ain't that the damnedest thing," Breaman murmured.

Lindsay stepped up and gawked up at Ambrose. "You didn't tell me he could talk, Russ."

"He can do more than that," Jeb snapped and pushed his way forward, away from his mother's grasping hands. "He fixed the motorbike."

"Did he now?" Aggie Maycroft asked and sidled over to her bike. She looked it over, then flipped the green ignition switch. Once more the shop was filled with the din of the motor before she turned it off again. "Starts good as new, too!"

This set the crowd to muttering and Ambrose finally got the sense to back away a bit.

"What's going on, Demason?" Wessinger asked, seizing control. "What have you done?"

"I've not done anything," Russell replied. "Ambrose did most of the work, we just helped him along."

Ambrose had by now retreated behind Adora. "Sorry I woke you all," he repeated. "Sorry I wo-" Adora gave his wrist a squeeze, stopping the loop.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow at the Hall," Wessinger declared. "Ten sharp. I want all of you there." His gaze flicked from Jeb to Adora and finally the headcase before settling upon Russell. "Am I clear?"

Russell nodded, and slowly the villagers showed themselves out. Breaman lingered, giving them an assessing look.

"Maybe I'll bring the wife's vacuum cleaner," he mused with a nod to Ambrose. "You invented the blasted thing, maybe you can fix it."

Ambrose simply blinked in confusion, but Adora stepped forward. "Good night, sir. May your hearth be warm."

With a sigh Breaman glanced to the ceiling before shaking his head. "You need something new, ma'am, they know all the words to that song." With that he docked out of the shop, closing the door behind him.

"Matt Breaman's in the Resistance?" Russell muttered.

Adora shook her head. "I don't know what he is yet," she sighed, then looked up at him. "But I intend to find out."


End file.
